The Night the Lights Went Out in NYC
by Skye Feyden
Summary: In that instant, I felt betrayed, dejected, felt as if he had broken and cheapened the love that had once been between us. Had it all been for nothing in the end? [SpotRace slash warning]
1. Part One

"We spend a whole life searching for

All the things we think we want

Yet never really knowing what we have."

--_The Night the Lights Went Out in NYC_, The Ataris

**THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS WENT OUT IN NYC**

_Part One_

Perhaps it was that Spot Conlon had come home to die, or at least to visit the gravesite of his mother who already had. I'd passed him on the street in the East Village, outside of the Horus Café on 6th Street and Avenue B. His eyes were blue and glazed over as if he'd had too many drinks and too much hookah and grabbed by a sudden impulse, I'd reached out and touched his arm.

"Sean Conlon?" I said, a question and a comment both at once.

"Fuck off," he said and swatted at my hand.

"Sean, it's Anthony."

"Fuck me," he said and then fell into a wondrous speechlessness. Even in his stupor he knew the weight of my words.

I laughed. I already had, a long time ago. "What are you doing here? I thought you left New York, for good."

"I did. I came home to see my mam."

But Kathleen Conlon had died, that much I knew. Cancer had finally done her in while we'd still been in high school.

He elaborated. "I come home once a year to stop by the grave. You know, to pay my respects in person. Show her some of the pictures and all that."

"Why didn't you ever call anyone?"

"It just didn't seem like a good idea."

I left his remark alone.

"So where have you been all these years?"

"My citizenship's still good in Ireland," he said. "I was living with my mother's sister Margaret."

"You never reconciled with your father?"

"He was a tough bastard," Sean said. Then he paused. "Mam never told him I'm gay. Maggie's a lot like Mam."

I looked Sean up and down. He was the all-American boy with an Irish passport. It had been thanks to his mother, of course, because she'd been the one to bear Sean in her homeland and then come to America to raise him. He'd been absolutely devastated to learn of the cancer.

"Where are you staying?"

"I'm giving it one last go with my father." he said.

For a moment I didn't know what to say. Then I offered, "You can stay with me, at least for a bit."

He took a deep breath. The alcohol was making him tired.

"No," he said. "No, but thanks. Look, Anthony, it's late, I've got to go."

"If you need anything—"

"Yeah, sure," he said. There was no reflection of the old Spot Conlon. This was nothing but a pale, skinny, nervous imitation. "It was nice seeing you, Anthony. Good luck, and take care."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned, and he left, just as easily as he had done all those years ago.

………………………………………………….

A week later we were both standing in line for $2 falafel at Mahmoun's.

"Sean," I called. "Sean, behind you."

He turned around and I motioned for him to let a few people go before him with their orders.

"I would've thought you'd have left by now," I said, pleased at the prospect of another chance.

"The anniversary of her death isn't until next Wednesday." he said. He did not look pleased to see me again.

"When are you going back to Ireland?"

"I don't know."

He wasn't making the conversation easy at all. "So you're staying in Brooklyn?"

"Yeah, with my father."

"He any easier to live with?"

"No."

I wanted to ask him why he was so unhappy but if the anniversary of my mother's death was next Wednesday, I'd be unhappy too. Accordingly I bit my tongue.

"Here," I told him, "Let me treat. It's the cheapest food in Manhattan, anyway, so it won't break my wallet."

He smiled but the warmth did not quite extend to his eyes. It faded just as quickly and he was left silent.

"So what do you do in Ireland?"

"I do construction work in Dublin."

"Must be a great city," I said.

"It's shit, but I love it like I love New York … just kinda feels like home, I guess."

I pressed further. "You must be very happy over there."

"Happy enough," he said. Then, in an instant, he was all seriousness. "Look, Anthony, it's great to see you and all, but life's a little different now and I don't feel comfortable with this whole arrangement."

"What arrangement?"

"This … you … all the questions. I came home to see Mam's grave and then I'll just be off again."

"Sean, I'm not trying to make things difficult—"

"My whole life is in Ireland now. It's new and has no past."

"Look, let's just get our food and go out for coffee or something simple."

"No. Thanks, but no. Respectfully, of course."

"Sean, can I do something for you? Can I write my mobile phone number down on a piece of paper and give it to you?"

"I probably won't call."

"You don't have to make any promises." I grinned. Then I sobered. "Please."

"Fine."

I scribbled both my mobile number and home number on the back of some long-expired D'Agostino's promotional advertisement that I'd forgotten and lost in the depths of my wallet.

"There," I said. "I feel like this is the end of some horrible date."

"Oh, you only wish," Sean's face stayed straight before breaking into the tiniest of smiles. "Like I said, I probably won't call."

"That's alright," I said, "Just as long as you know that you have the option."

………………………………………….

The phone rang very early in the morning the following Wednesday. When I said hello, a breathy pause filled the line.

"Anthony Higgins?"

"Sean?"

"Do you want to meet me at the Union Square Station in half an hour?"

"Yeah, yeah, what—"

"Go down to the L in the basement." The line died.

Still groggy, I leapt from bed and filed into the bathroom. A sleepy reflection with messy black hair greeted me as I turned on the tap.

It struck me suddenly that in those years since Spot – Sean – had left, I'd changed, too, as witnessed in all those lines creasing the corners of my eyes. We only twenty-four, the both of us, still young, but I was aging before my time and never before had it mattered at all.

Even thought I knew that the L was the only train to Bedford I was still resentful of the stairs involved in getting to the platform. Once at the bottom, however, the sight of Sean Conlon awaited me and I strode over to him.

"Hey, Sean," I said gently and smiled. A fading image of Sean's lithe body arching beneath me flashed across my mind.

"I hope I didn't wake you?"

"Don't worry about it," I said. "What's up?"

The sound of the train approaching hung in the distance of the tunnel.

"I thought maybe you'd like to come along," he said, fidgeting.

"To where?"

"To visit my mam."

We stood back as the train roared into the platform and then walked aboard with all the businessmen in their suits.

The ride was silent, as the subway always is, and quick. Painless, I suppose. When we emerged onto Bedford Avenue, the sky was filled with soft gray clouds that amplified all the colour in the world.

I knew from long ago that here, in his crowded, ethnic part of Brooklyn, Mrs. Conlon had been laid to final rest in a mausoleum rather than into the ground. It was a beautiful little building – memorial – and I could hear the Spanish grocer next door arguing with his American wife in their second-floor apartment. We opened the door and stepped onto the silent marble floor.

The names immortalized onto bronze plaques were an entire world of nations themselves: Conlon, of course, but also Fernandes, Marovich, Shevket, Bertolli, and so many others.

I asked softly, "Do you want me to wait outside?"

"It's a tough day for me … I'd like someone here … you, you can sit down."

My footsteps resounded off the marble as I went to sit down next to Sean, surprised that he wanted someone to be near to him. He'd always been a solitary creature.

He put his splayed hand on the plaque. "Hello, Mam. I'm sorry I haven't been around too much." An assortment of photographs lay scattered on the floor. "Aunt Maggie says hi, she sends her love."

A strange tone had crept into his voice and I wondered if he ever felt foolish talking when no one could hear him. Then again, maybe his mother was with us at this very moment.

"Maggie's new baby is fine, a big healthy girl named Maureen. She's beautiful, looks just like you." He tucked a picture of the baby behind the corner of the plaque.

I noticed then a picture of Sean himself, standing with his arm around the waist of another smiling boy with red-brown hair and big, bright green eyes. Gently I reached for it and picked it up; it was obviously a love-worn photograph and it folded in my hand.

"Who's this?" I asked gently, and a great pain struck my heart. I realized: Sean was still beautiful.

He looked at it tenderly. "That's Michael," he said, reached for it as if it were a child. "He says hello, too, Mam." Then he turned slightly to me. "Michael's my boyfriend of three years. We live together in Dublin."

"And is he Irish, too?" My chest felt as if it would collapse. Michael was a very handsome boy.

"He was born and raised on a sheep farm in County Kerry. He's Catholic and he's Irish and if I could marry him I would do it."

He swallowed hard; I could see the muscles of his throat move. In that instant, in a certain way, I felt betrayed, dejected, felt as if he had broken and cheapened the love that had once been between us. The intensity of my anger shocked me, and I looked away from the smiling photograph. Had I really been so stupid as to hope that things could always be the same? But had it all been for nothing?

"Michael and I are looking for a new place, Mam, in the countryside. We want to open our own pub and live off that."

"So that's it, then?" I said. He turned his cold blue eyes on me. "So you've got everything you want, and that's the end of your story?"

"Oh, no, Anthony," he said. "Oh, no, I think it's only the beginning."


	2. Part Two

**Charlie Bird**, you're so honest it hurts. Actually, it doesn't hurt, it feels rather good, and I appreciate it more than you'd believe. Everything you said was exactly what I thought, but I figured I would give it the go-aheadregardless even if the end of the first part didn't exactly click for me. This entire story feels terribly skeletal for me, but what the hell, I might flesh it out later. Thanks so much, your comments always help. That's the best gift for a want-to-be writer.

**entropic order**, I am so glad you decided to read this fic and then review it. Apparently it got 36 hits but only 6 reviews. Watch this fast math: that's 1 review for every6 readers (you won't ever see math that quick from me again). I always love when people drop me a good little line. Thanks so much.

**Liams Kitten**: Hope this part satisfies your curiousity and ties up all those loose ends that might be visible to you. Also hope that you like this conclusion. Happy reading!

**PeliculaJane** -- Sparkling is just a smashing word. Glad you felt it could be used in reference to this here fic I wrote at work (at work!). I pray that this last part doesn't let you down. Frankly, I like it much better than the first part, but who the hell knows. Hopefully it sparkles for you as well.

**Kid Blink's Dreamer**: I absolutely hate to say this, but the other part was just the beginning, and now this is just the end. I would have written more, but it would have just gotten crappy. College has just sucked the life out of me and my creative genes are all ashambles. I'm trying for something a bit longer than just two parts next times, so wish me luck, eh?

And last but not least, **to my darling Jilly**: gimme a call sometime and we'll have a chat at Starbucks ... it's difficult not living above one now like I did in New York. Love you endlessly.

* * *

**The Night the Lights Went Out in NYC**

_Part Two of Two_

Everything stopped at once – the microwave, the television, the lights. It was sunset, and I threw open the windows of my apartment on the fifteenth floor. Outside the city was as hot as an oven.

No lights anywhere. What the hell was this, some kind of huge practical joke? The streets began to clog with cars and with people on foot, and I realised that there must be no power at all in the city; I had barely any time at all to think before my cell phone rang. The number was unfamiliar and although I usually left unknown numbers for the voicemail, I felt some pull to answer.

"Anthony?"

"Sean?"

"I can't get back to Brooklyn – the subways are down and I have my stuff with me. I never expected to have to ask you –"

"Where are you? I'll come get you," I volunteered.

"The Astor Place downtown station." As if he needed to make amends, he said, "I'm sorry."

"I'll see you in twenty minutes."

No elevator and fifteen flights of stairs let me know, quickly, just how out of shape I had let myself become. Working as a new stockbroker did not leave me time to boost my physical fitness, however, and I suddenly realized the toll it had taken on my. In a flash, I hated my life and all the useless work I had done.

I had to fight my way to Sean who was sitting on the balcony surrounding the gaping whole of the stairs. People were pouring out of the station and I shouted for him. When our eyes met he leapt down and pushed his way to me.

"Where are your bags?"

"I travel light," he said, turning to reveal a backpack, almost yelling above the din of the crowd. "Listen, if I'm inconveniencing you —"

"Follow me," I called, and reached to take his hand. He pulled back instantly, then allowed our palms to touch. His hand was much rougher than I remembered and I could feel the calluses on his fingers.

Together we struggled through the thousands, perhaps millions, who'd filled the streets and knew themselves to be lost. We were lucky to have to place, close, to which to return. I was glad that Sean was with me. Fifteen flights of stairs, I noticed, did not wind him.

The air conditioning had long since passed away, of course, and it was hotter in my apartment than it was outside. I flopped down on the couch. Sean followed suit.

"I thought you'd have been gone by now." I said.

He shrugged. "I wanted to hang around a bit before I went back. If Michael and I really are going to save for our pub, I don't know if I'll ever see New York again."

"You could really do that? Leave for good, I mean?"

"I think it's about time I move forward and stop looking back. I told Mam. She understands, too."

"So you're really that happy in Ireland?"

"I'm happy with Michael, and he's happy in Ireland."

I was silent. If I looked at him again, I knew, with terrible certainty, that I'd fall in love with him again.

No. I already had.

"So you own this place?" he asked.

"I have a controlled rent."

"Split it with anybody?"

"I live alone."

I could feel his eyes on me. Oh, God, I'd forgotten, forgotten what it was like, what he was like. Why had he come back into my life like this?

"What?" he asked.

"I didn't say anything."

"Aye, but you want to. What is it?"

"Do you really honestly love Michael?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you on about?"

"Nothing. I'm glad you're happy at last."

"Thank you."

"What are you going to call your pub?"

"Sean Dempsey's. It's my name and Michael's surname. Sounds nice, no?" He paused. "Tell me something about you."

"There's nothing to tell."

"What have you done with your life?"

"Not much, that's for damn certain."

"Something, at least?"

"I work on Wall Street as a stockbroker."

"Always one to gamble with money."

"This time it's not my own, though. I don't have much of my own. I always wanted horses but that's a stupid dream."

"It's not stupid. You should try for it."

"There's no use. This apartment costs too much and I don't make nearly enough."

"You sound miserable."

"I never stopped hoping that you'd come back, one day." I told him suddenly. There was a burning behind my eyes.

"How does it feel, then?"

"What?"

"That I'm back, under all these terrible circumstances."

"Oh, no, these are miracles that've brought you back."

He let me take his hand and push my fingers through his.

"I meant it when I said it," he told me softly.

"What?"

"When I said I loved you, all those years ago," he whispered.

I turned to look at him, and his blue eyes were not full of malice or deceit. There was honestly, and sadness, and a childhood he had buried along with his mother.

"Sean," I said, leaning toward him. I could feel his breath on my neck, could smell the sour alcohol on it. For a moment I paused, embarrassed by my former self, but when my lips met his, my old cover fell away and there was only him and me alone together.

He did not kiss back and I put my hand on the nape of his neck which was covered in soft down. The skin of his face was smooth against my cheek as he, confused and unmoving and stoic, let me touch him, caress him, kiss him. Then, with an intensity that took me by surprise, he answered back, and opened his lips like a flower against mine. I felt him tug at my shirt and I pulled away and gasped for breath as I slid it over my head.

In the darkness of my apartment we lay together on the cool floor, against each other, although I dared not violate what was no longer, and would never again be, mine. His hands were hot against my back and our clothes lay in tangles beside us, wet with stifling heat. At long last, he pulled away, and in a breathy low voice said, "I'm leaving tomorrow night."

My eyes were still burning with passion, with anger, with hopelessness and despair and loneliness. "How could you love me and leave me?"

"It was a long time ago," he whispered and put his tender fingers against my chest. He did not meet my eyes.

"What's different now?"

"Och, Anthony," he said and for the first time I could hear Ireland in his voice. "Everything's different. A long time ago I was simple. Now everything's so complicated."

"Did you have other people before Michael?"

"A few. They didn't mean anything," he added. "I only ever loved you, and Michael."

I wanted to cry. "Sean –"

He gently pressed his lips to mine and I could feel his hands on my body. This was my salvation, this simple tangled connection.

"You were my entire reason for life," he whispered and kissed my eyes that were leaking tears without permission. "All I ever had, just not all I ever wanted."

I withered against him, at last devoid of any energy. He put his arms around me and kissed me one last time. Alone together, the night the lights went out in New York City, we lay sleeping on the floor, dreaming each of different lives and different hopes.

………………………………………………

He wasn't there the next morning; all traces of Sean Conlon had disappeared with that chaotic night of complete and total darkness in the city. No note, no call, no nothing. Sometime later, I received a Thank-You card in the mail with an Irish postmark, but the signature was so scribbled that I couldn't be sure Sean had sent it and that it wasn't just some mistake.

I never saw him again after that night, although he was always in my thoughts and part of the foundation of my hopes. But he'd changed me because he himself had been so changed, and I understood that when the lights went out in New York City, we'd found a certain light in each other.


End file.
